


A Healer's Tale: Book 1 Shackled

by TaleweaverNLM



Series: A Healer's Tale [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gore, Other, Sorry Not Sorry, To Be Edited, Violence, beware the typos!, descritptiones of torutre, explicit descriptions of gore, looking for serious feedback, subject to major editing, tramatic events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleweaverNLM/pseuds/TaleweaverNLM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feraveth has lived his life in the luxurious peace-time that fallowed the war his father had become a hero in. Despite the loss of his mother, and caring for a crippled father, Feraveth has no regrets or wants. That's all torn to shreds during what started as a day like any other.</p><p>Now, Feraveth must survive on his own, with nothing more than his wits, and the drive to stop the ones at fault; but the road is long and fraught with dangers.</p><p>With new friends at his side, Feraveth sets out on the first step of his journey to end what his Father began.</p><p>(Summery Subject to Revisions & Re-Wrights)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Healer's Tale: Book 1 Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a fantasy novel, of course. Anyway, this is just a little tidbit explaining a few things.  
> 1\. I am posting this up for feedback, it is a very rough draft, but as I live in the middle of nowhere and getting into contact with people who would care enough to read and then take the time to GIVE that feedback would require me to move to a different county I have to rely on the internet.  
> 2\. I have recently been adding the language for the 'elves' of my story. ATM I'll refer to them as elves, later they will be called Donwaths or Donwathians (I'm undecided witch, singular is Donwath) Witch in truth is just another word for Elf from an ancient language of Celtic that has actually be extinct for 300 years now. AS I plan to do so in the book, I will include a note that says the translations at the end of each post.  
> 3\. While I call my race Elves, some may argue that they should be called fairies as I give the classic gossamer fairy wings, It's actually a large part of Feraveth's being as a character. as the name Elf and Fairy can both be given to my race here, I have decided to use Donwathians or Donwaths(Still undecided) just to prevent pre-judgment and expectations.  
> 4\. as this is a rough, it is subject to major revisions at any given point, just a heads up. (case in point, I'm already considering a new plot involving Feraveth's fellow healer Ceere that will lead to a major edit at some point)  
> 5\. as I said before, I am posting this for feedback, including! if you see misspelling, miss grammar, wrong tense, or just something that doesn't fit, feel free to tell me in a non insulting, or a condescending way. Constructive criticism is good, flames will be used to roast marshmallows after they have been carefully considered.
> 
> Okay, I'm done, enjoy! I posted both the prologue and the first chapter together.

Prologue

 

After the wars of Ullidrthrac, Lorthimar son of Imlyethunras and high general of Lord Lucasta son of Ceragadador's army was there after lauded as a hero. Through valor and wit Lorthimar had succeeded in leading his men thru the nightmarish battles and long cold nights to victory, yet, as with all things, it came at a steep price. Though he had won the war, Lorthimar had suffered irreparable injuries to the right side of his body, borne the loss of numerous friends and relations; during this time of already great loss so too had Lorthimar been forcibly stripped of his glorious gossamer wings of many colors. To the shock of some, though not to those who knew him, Lorthimar embraced the loss of his place amongst the warrior ranks, for many things can leave scars far deeper then flesh. From the ways of battle he turned to the ways of love and family, courting and eventually bonding with the Lady Aere of the house of the Gilded Iris. 

 

They had only one child, a son, before Lady Aere was tragically stolen away to the halls of Kardulaeth, the lord of the dead. Feraveth son of Lorthimar was not borne a large child. In fact he had come into the world at such a small size that the healer had, at first, thought something was direly wrong with the babe. Thankfully, after the healer had looked him over good and proper, he had announced that the incredible small elfling was also incredibly healthy. As Feraveth grew, this did not change. He remained forever small and thin. Often you could hear those he passed by speak of their belief that, should a stiff wind come, Feraveth would be blown away with it.

 

Many of Lorthimar's kin and friends had worried at first that such a child could only bring shame upon them, though Lorthimar had informed them without hesitation that 'unless he slaughters the gods themselves he could bring no shame upon me, and I would find it hard to say he did even then.'

 

They needn't have worried, for what Feraveth lacked in height he made up with his incredible wit, sharp tongue, and formidable mind. Feraveth turned that mind away from the ways of the blade and battle long before the thought of him joining the ranks had even crossed anyone's mind and had been dismissed just as fast. Feraveth instead began learning the skills of the healing arts and its magicks, honing his skills faster than his fellow apprentices and rising to the place of apprentice under the head healer in a quarter of the time usually needed to be even thought of for the position.

 

He had had no idea just where his decision would take him… 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Feraveth started his day the same way he had started every other. He awoke before the dawn, donned his tunic and laced his britches before he slipped on his knee high boots and shrugged on his deep green healers robe, as was his taste it was for the majority bare, save the silver thread accents in the shape of many small leaves along the trim and sleeves. After dressing, he began work on his unruly waist length, chestnut brown hair, for truly it was a nightmare. When unbound, his chestnut locks would curl and twist in every which way, oft acting as if it were alive. Pulling it back into the customary healer's braid consisting of six smaller braids, three on each side all pulled back into one long braid was a daunting task in itself. When finished he would fastened it with his favored silver clasp, plain, with a lone sapphire in its center, it had been his mother's and was given to him as a gift from his father on the day he was accepted as an apprentice.

 

When finished completely, Feraveth would stand before his mirror for his usual double check. Even after reaching his majority a full 203 years ago, Feraveth had never struck an imposing figure. He stood at exactly five feet tall, his face heart shaped and with his hazel eyes, prone to changing shade with the season, Feraveth was as far from imposing as one could possibly attain. Feraveth's wings were impressive in their way, though only when he didn't have them folded behind him like a strange fey cape, which is how he usually had them. They were impressive mainly in their size, they stood a full two feet over his head and brushed the ground, and for their ragged curling edges. During clear, sunny days, the near translucent appendages would flash with a multicolored sheen whenever he stepped into the light. They were especially bright when he actually used them, but such instances were admittedly few and far between, something most found odd and blamed on his being raised by his wingless father. Feraveth's reputation for being odd wasn't helped by his complete lack of temper; neither did his seemingly limitless patience. Though there were a few instances, instances that mainly involved Feraveth's books, where that well of patience dried up rather quickly and whomever the unfortunate soul who had invoked Feraveth's wrath had better get away while they could. According to those who had been on the receiving ends, there was only one thing worse than Feraveth's ire, and that was when he had set his mind on something. No, Feraveth wouldn't argue the point violently, nor would he scream or even raise his voice at all! All the sweet little healer had to do was smile, say his piece, and you would feel like the worst being on the earth. Not because you were wrong, mind you, but because he would do it all while smiling softly and speaking in the kindest tone possible!

 

Not all that imposing at all.

 

Satisfied, Feraveth made his way to the kitchen and began preparing his father's morning meal. It wasn't anything to boast about, just a few eggs and a smattering of ham and potatoes rounded off with a sweet roll. Normally, the cook would make the food, but the son of Imlyethunras had the bad habit of waking long before Miss Mirma, their dear cook, had even stepped foot out of her own quarters. Feraveth had only found out Mirma was being forced to wake with his father when he found her half asleep in a pile of bread dough one afternoon. After that, Feraveth had taken it upon himself to prepare the  
morning meal, letting dear Miss Mirma sleep until the proper time in the morning.

 

After everything was set just right and he had poured two glasses of chilled milk from the ice box, Feraveth gathered it all upon a tray and set out for his father's rooms. While their home was not lavish, it was edging on the large side with its dark mahogany walls and tall arched ceilings, on every wall were groups of paintings and every nook and cranny had some sort of knick-knack tucked away. Settled in every window was a flower box, while every room had a door to the wraparound porch that doubled as a walkway, it was quite a site to see in the summer as the wisteria, guided by Feraveth's hand, would creep up to the roof and hang down like a curtain, preventing the stone from becoming overheated and creating a scene from a fairy tale. Traversing the dark corridors in the chilly twilight morning was nothing new; the path was well etched into Feraveth's mind from countless mornings and many nights of use when he sought refuge from the creepers under his bed or the trolls smashing about during storms in the warm covers of his father's bed.

 

When Feraveth finally arrived at his father's door he didn't bother with knocking, he simply shouldered the heavy wooden door to the side and used a slip of his ankle to close it right back once he was thru. His light steps carried him to the balcony doors on the far side of his father's bedroom, a grand space made of cream walls hidden under murals of flowering meadows and pale wood supports, and he smiled as he saw Lorthimar settled in his usual seat by the tree shaped glass topped table with its matching chairs. All set out for the précis reason of having breakfast together.

 

'Good morn to you father, has the lord of dreams blessed you this night?'

 

Lorthimar's response came with a wispy laugh 'yes, it seems lord Kreeyar pitied me for once. Enough of that, you wipe that look of your face and come break your fast with me and greet the dawn.'

 

Though it was hard, Feraveth did remove the worry from his face, before he placed the tray on the little table and took his place in the right side chair. Feraveth and Lorthimar dined together as they always did, discussing their daily plans, gossiping about the people of the city, poking fun at those who would not care about such, and a few that most certainly would have! By the time they finished the sun had risen and painted the city in its pinks and yellows, and Feraveth left his father for it was time he set off for work. Feraveth bid the maid Lorlithie a good morn as he donned a light cloak, more of a shawl really as it only fell to his elbows. He couldn't help fingering the sapphire set in its filigree clasp reverently a moment, another gift from his father but for his 50th name day, before striking out towards the healing halls. 

 

Unlike most, Feraveth didn't use his wings to traverse the city streets, he truly did not see a reason to use so much energy when walking was just as well and allowed him to meet and greet a great many people he would have passed by otherwise. He wasn't the only one who walked instead of flew either, one just had to look at the men folk and they'd find a great many preferring the ground day to day to using their large feathered wings. The other advantage was, to put it simply, it allowed him to waylay many on their way to the halls. He diagnosed them and sent them well on their way with a smile long before they reached the halls; it helped that he was the most asked for healer of Ne'Variea despite not holding the title of a Master Healer. When Feraveth was not doing his job on the go his walk was peppered by many well wishes and good morns, and the occasional treat finding its way into his billowed sleeves.

 

By the time Feraveth finally walked into the great entry hall the sun had reached its 9 o'clock position and his once rival apprentice brother Ceere greeted him with a smile and a wave that he returned with his own grin, 'Good morn to you brother.'  
'I hope you keep that good cheer, brother, as your first patient is Miss Itharian.'  
'Oh? What has stricken her this time, a stiffness of her pinkie? Perhaps a might of an itch on her big toe or, better yet, she's perspiring too much!' 

 

They shared a laugh though Feraveth truly did dread dealing with the infamous Miss Itharian, again. She was probably as warned about as he was asked for, coming in for every little change in her physical wellbeing from being too warm to, indeed, a stiffness in her right pinkie. Feraveth didn’t bother asking which room Itharian was in as she would always pick the same one, four doors from the entry hall, turn right, third door on the left, it was the room with the largest window. He entered the sunlit room with a smile, always the skillful actor.

 

'Good morn to you Lady Itharian, how can I be of service today?'  
'It's about time! I have this dreadful throbbing in my foot you see and…'  
As she continued on, Feraveth mentally shrugged "mayhap she shouldn't wear those ridiculous high heels then…" To her he smiled 'right then, let's have a look, shall we? Oh my, new shoes again my lady, they are lovely.'

 

'Why thank you darling! I just got them the other day from this lovely trader…'

 

As midday rolled around, the time for the daily run to the market to gather whatever items they had run out of came upon them. Now, the path to the market was indeed a long one with or without wings as the Healing Halls sat near the center of the city and all markets were at the four city gates. As the Halls only survived off the donations of others and what the Healers produced themselves it would have been a waste to use gold to hire a servant to do the job, but the long trek required the exuberance and fitness of a youth to make it easily. At least that’s what many of the higher healers said, frankly Feraveth figured they just got a kick out of sending lower healers and apprentices off with a note to grab whatever they wanted as well, from a cream puff for Healer Stron to a set of chime balls you rotate in your hand for Healer Mielania. Luckily for Feraveth, it was a great day to walk to the market, though he had seen a growing storm in the Grea'Gar Mountains to the west. He grabbed the usual basket, donned his travel cloak once more and began the trip to the market settled at the south gate. 

 

Again Feraveth's trip was peppered with greetings and those who needed a quick look over, he even got stopped to take a quick look at a horse's hoof. How being a healer translated into being able to care for animals Feraveth didn't know, but as he owned his own horse, another oddity, he easily saw that there was a slight infection; nothing a few hot coals and a sharp blade wouldn't take care of in time.

 

Gathering the required items didn't take half as long as the walk did, his basket filled with herbs, a variety of barks and fungus, a few bowls and cups to replace those recently damaged, and yes, even Mielania's chime balls. As Feraveth turned to return the Healing Halls after thanking the potter, the sound of a spooked horse rang out across the square. Feraveth turned just in time to see said horse rear up and an older mortal woman with drooping gray wings stumble and fall to the ground with a sharp crack. In less than a moment, Feraveth was by her side; his healer's training overriding any and all thoughts about returning to the halls just then.

 

'Ma'am, are you alright? Does anything hurt?'

Before the woman could answer, the sound of a horn tore thru the air. Everything and everyone seemed to go still. A deafening silence settled over the crowded market, even the stone below his feet had seemed to hold its breath. The pregnant silence was shattered by the sound of arrows cutting thru the sky like a blade thru wet parchment and the screeching calls of those who had fired them.

 

The market fell into chaos, the people on the ground running about in such a way that no one could take to the air while many in the air crashed into one another and fell atop those already on the ground. Feraveth did his best to protect the older woman from the trampling feet of the panicked masses, before he spotted a young boy dash by. Using the voice he learned from his father Feraveth called the boy back and asked for his aid in getting the woman to the healers.

 

'Quickly now, take her arm over your shoulder. Yes, that’s it; now put yours about her waist, watch her wings. Come now, she's an old woman, not some lady of the court! Though I applaud your propriety and I do not doubt she would be flattered, now is not the time.'

 

They only made it a few stumbling steps when the harsh sound of clanking metal filled the square. The last thing Feraveth saw was the young boy's terrified eyes…  
Then everything went black.

 

The dull pain of the cobblestone digging into his chest was the first thing Feraveth registered when he woke. His mind was foggy, his head ached and he was reasonably certain that there should not have been a wet, sticky substance seeping into his robes and coating his fingers. The smell of over ripe fruit assaulted his nose when he took a breath and the air was hot and dry. Testing his wings on instinct Feraveth flinched, thankfully they only felt crinkled and sore but there were no tears. He blinked slowly, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom but there wasn't much to see, the space around him was illuminated only by stray beams of light and it's only after staring straight ahead for an undetermined period of time that Feraveth realized he was surrounded by wood. Things finally fell into place as he shifted around enough to see the dwarven iron frame work between the wooden planks. He'd somehow ended up beneath the fruit cart that the spooked horse had been pulling. Feraveth took a moment to thank the gods; it could have only been by their grace he hadn't been crushed by the heavy wagon. With a bit of wiggling and head bumping Feraveth managed to get himself on his back, he needed to find a way from beneath the wagon, there was no hope for him lifting the reinforced wood.

 

With panic rising in his chest, Feraveth searched what he could see but there appeared to be no weakness. He could feel the panic bubbling in his chest and clawing at his throat, it was only thru sheer force of will that he managed to rein it in. With a calming breath, he began to nudge and hit at the wood, hoping he would find a weakness there. Nudges and hits got stronger with each failure, the panic beginning to win out, his breath quickening while his heart started to race. Feraveth only returned to himself when the loud sound of cracked wood met his ears and a shower of splinters rained down. A rush of air hit Feraveth's face and suddenly he could breathe again as he squinted into the new flood of light. The whole was not that big, and even after he kicked and shoved at its edges the wood still managed to snag and tear at his wings and robes but he was too focused on being out of the cramped space to pay any heed.

 

Feraveth sat atop the overturned wagon with his legs still inside the whole, and took a deep breath. Rather, he tried to, for just as the air filled his nose he became aware of the sharp, acrid stench that had permeated the area. Feraveth choked and gaged, groping for his cloak to over his mouth and nose to find relief from the smell. It is not something he had smelt before, not with such strength, but it reminds him of the smells from the butcher near the west gate food market. When his eyes finally clear enough and he can take some shallow breaths, Feraveth finally began to look about the square.  
The sights that greeted his eyes made his heart stutter and his face lose all color, for the source of the stench became as apparent as a bull among cows. Strewn throughout the square, on rooftops, in piles of two or three on the street, even hanging out of windows and doorways were countless bodies. Some had arrows protruding from their flesh like porcupine quills while others have been slashed and had limbs hacked away. The sight burned itself into Feraveth’s eyes and the only reason he finally moved was to twist to the side and lose the contents of his stomach.

 

He hung there for a few breaths, before he slowly pushed himself up. What he saw caused him to choke once again, Feraveth had inadvertently turned himself in the direction of the elderly woman and the boy he had been with in the last moments he remembered. The site of the old woman wasn’t what made his stomach roll, it was the sight of the young boy. He’d been de-limed and disemboweled by the looks of it, and Feraveth had the sickened feeling that, though his life wouldn’t have been spared, the boy would have had a much cleaner death had he not called for his aid.

 

With chocked breath and shaking limbs, Feraveth finally pulled himself from the wagon, his eyes focused resolutely on the ground. He held his juice stained sleeve over his mouth and nose and used the smell of rotten fruit to block out the smell of the dead in the hot sun. Feraveth didn’t know the full extent of what had happened and it was as if he walked in a daze, his feet carried him along the familiar road of the market in stumbling steps, dodging bodies and pools of crimson. He wove thru the destruction, every now and again he would hear the sound of crackling fire and the scream of falling boards but he never looked up. Soon, Feraveth had found himself before the Halls of healing, and he finally brought his gaze up from the cobble stone.

 

The off white marble walls of the healing halls filled his vision, all wood decoration that had once been on the facade had been ripped down at some point leaving only the discoloration to mark where they had been. As Feraveth made his way up the steps he saw smatterings of blood staining the stone, but he knew that if anyone had survived, the halls were where they would have gone. When he made his way into the great hall for the third time that day, he was struck by the defining silence. Even on its calmest day, the healing halls had never been completely silent. A stray gust of wind caused the linen curtains, used to separate patients and rooms, to flutter in the wind like ghostly banners. The sound made him think of the temple in the center of the city when all were paying silent homage to the Gods.

 

Feraveth let his mind linger on the images before he shook his head. He did not know why the halls appeared empty, or if they were truly empty, but he knew the extra linens for patients had been kept in the supply room that made up half of the center of the building and his clothing was becoming unbearably uncomfortable. The silence was so absolute that Feraveth barely dared to breathe as he made his way to the store room. The inside was in shambles, herbs had been spilled all over the floor causing them to perfume the air, and bedsheets were laid about like funeral drapes and the door to the clothes closet had been jammed shut by a toppled shelf. Feraveth stared in slight dismay at the shelf, there was very little chance of him moving it and breaking it apart just wasn’t an option in his mind. 

 

With the smell of the herbs and rotten fruit making him dizzy, Feraveth left the room intent to ether find some spare lying about or find something to leverage the shelf off the door. The silent halls were only disturbed by the sounds of his robes brushing the floor and his breathing, it made a chill go down Feraveth’s spine. After searching a few ominously empty and disturbed rooms, mind skirting away from the telling discolored stains, Feraveth found a busted cart filled with freshly laundered linens. Though they were wrinkled and over dry Feraveth changed into them with relief. The change seemed to settle him slightly, allowing the fog to loosen its choking grip, only for the stark chill of comprehension to take its place. Feraveth froze, his shoulders shaking, he hadn’t wanted to understand what had happened, hadn’t wanted to accept it was real. To this end, Feraveth’s rational mind fled again, leaving his physical shell to wander the Healing Halls aimlessly searching for anyone at all.

 

It was during this wandering that a new smell had caught his attention. Smoke and something he could not readily identify. Having no conscious mind to stop him, Feraveth followed the smell until he came to the small courtyard behind the halls that had acted as a refugee to both healers and patients. The court yard was a lush garden, with a path that circled around and entered at four points, coming together in the center as a circle around an old red maple tree. That was the sight Feraveth had unconsciously sought out, to bring some sort of piece to his shaken mind. The vision Feraveth found brought him back to reality with the same grace as a rolling boulder. At first, Feraveth hadn’t understood what he had seen, but when recognition rolled over him in a wave the wail that escaped his lips was animalistic in the level of pain and sorrow. It bounce off the walls and echoed through the city, it was joined by the cries of the carrion as they took startled flight.

 

Before him stood not the comforting maple but a pillaged waste scattered with large wooden crosses, each bedecked with a pair wings, bloodied and ruined. Where the proud maple tree had stood, a husk remained, and piled high against its trunk where the now charred remains of the healers and patients that had dwelled in the halls. The longer he stared, the more Feraveth recognized, from Miss Itharian’s new shoes to Ceere’s beloved cobalt wing pendant.

 

Vaguely, Feraveth realized he had begun to shake and emit strange half whines as he recalled the faces before him. Black spots started to dance across his vision and his skin went pale and clammy. An animalistic need had spread thru him then. With skittering and stumbling steps, Feraveth scrambled out of the courtyard and onto the ruined streets. For the first time in ages Feraveth, in his desperate need to get to the one place he knew as safe, spread his large translucent wings wide and took to the air. Though it took a few good flaps, Feraveth rouse above the rooftops of Ne'Variea. With the ease of one returning to an ill used but mastered craft, Feraveth flew for his home.  
Feraveth paid no heed to the plumes of smoke that stained his white linens, nor to the many ruined towers he passed by. Where the rest of the world was a blur, Feraveth could see his home in a sharp detail as he had gotten closer and closer. Yet, as he reached the street that his home sat on, Feraveth returned to the ground.

 

Feraveth wasted no time in actually looking at his home. Instead, he tore through the already leaning door causing it to fall to the floor with a crash. He dashed thru halls and up stairs until he came upon his father's great doors. His hands shook, but Feraveth pushed the doors open despite his great trepidation. His tears came anew as the forms of Lorlithie and Mirma were reveled just within the room, one clutching a splintered broom handle, the other what appeared to be a large soup ladle. 

 

He stared at them for a long moment, only roused from his temporary stupor by the sound of a carrion bird close by and a strange creaking coming from the direction of the closed balcony doors. Feeling a desperate hope rise in his chest, Feraveth crossed the room paying no head to its new scars and stains. With a great shove, Feraveth threw open the gilded doors, and promptly jerked back at the on slot of noise and flying insects.  
When Feraveth regained his balance and sight, the visions before him sent him to his knees. Strung up with weapon drawn and broken body supported by rope and the remains of the balcony furniture was the broken and bloody body Lorthimar. 

 

The city echoed with the cried of Feraveth's grief, for in the remains of his father's room, Feraveth clutched himself and shattered. Feraveth's hands clutched at his linens and his eyes were blinded by grief and tears. He sat there, curled into himself and shaking from the force of his own breath until his voice ran horse and his eyes dried as if they had ran out of tears. There, surrounded by destruction and death, Feraveth fell fully to the floor and his body forced his mind into a deep and dreamless sleep…

 

The city of Ne'Variea had fallen, and her champion had fallen with her.


End file.
